A Dying Fire
by inksmudged
Summary: After her last dinner with the Middletons, Gemma leaves the brooch on the mantel in the parlor and returns the box to via messenger. What happens when Simon finds them?


_Gemma's last dinner with the Middletons. Simon's POV. First scene is first person. Last two are third person. (This was intentional.)  
Disclaimer: __First scene is an excerpt taken from page 538-539 of Rebel Angels (hardcover). No copyright infringement intended. I own nothing._

After dinner, when it is time for the men and women to retire to seperate quarters, I take Miss Doyle to the parlor. Nobody objects, and I feel more confident in my pursuit.

"I shall miss your company," I confess. "Will you write me?"

"Yes, of course," Gemma agrees. She seems distant, distracted. I'm losing her. Remembering the way her eyes lit with intrigue at the ball, I leap onto the only conversation which I'm sure will keep her attention.

"Did I tel you Miss Weston made a fool of herself chasing after Mr. Sharpe at a tea dance?"

Gemma doesn't answer, and I fear I've misstepped. Perhaps she thinks it poor taste to speak of others behind their backs. Well... it is, but that's never stopped anyone else. I search frantically for a different avenue of conversation. I'm so desperate to keep a hold of her, but she is like a wild swallow that I would like to keep as a songbird. I fear she will always struggle in my grasp, stare longingly out the window, pay me no heed when there are greater things to be done. Suddenly, Gemma gasps, looking short of breath.

"Gemma, what is it?" Her sorrow is like a shroud over the room. I want to carry her away from whatever sadness plagues her, bring her into the sunlight where she can always smile.

"Simon, would you still care for me if you discovered I was not who I say I am?"

"What do you mean?" I'm fairly certain I know what she means, but I want to be careful with my answer. I need to answer just right - I have a feeling that this question means a great deal to her, my answer could tip the scale of her affection in either direction.

"I mean, would you still care for me, no matter what you came to know?"

Try as I might, I can't discern the answer she wants. After a moment, I take the coward's route. "What a thing to ponder. I don't know what to say."

It is not the answer Gemma wanted. Her whole demeanor shifts, and I feel as if I might have lost her. I silently promise her that I will do everything in my power to redeem myself. I take the fire poker and stab half-heartedly at the dying embers. I fear that will be me and Gemma - a dying fire. Distractedly, I pull the poker away.

"I'm afraid this fire's had it," I say, if only for something to fill the silence.

"No, I think not. If..."

I sigh, and she stops. This whole evening is a wreck. Everything we say is contradictory, and I can do nothing to regain her favor.

"Pay me no mind," she says, swallowing hard. "I'm tired."

I latch onto the excuse like a drowning man to a plank of wood. "Yes. Still recovering. You'll put this all behind you soon enough and everything will be like it was." I can only hope. Standing in the parlor with her, the silence stretching between us like a wall, is excruciating. I don't know where I went wrong with her, but I am determined to win her favor back. Girls like Gemma Doyle do not come along often.

The maid knocks. "Begging your pardon, sir. Lady Denby asked for you."

I excuse myself, hiding my relief. Perhaps when I return, she will not be so unhappy.

- - -

Simon stands at the window beside the fireplace, watching as her family returns to their carriage. There is something so different about this girl, something exciting, forbidden, exotic. She is nothing like the others his mother has paraded before him – impeccable pedigrees and beautiful faces, but vacant minds. Not Gemma Doyle. She is an enigma behind tempestuous green eyes.

He watches in silence as their carriage sets off down the street, the hazy gaslights stretching the shadow into a long contortion of its source. Finally, the carriage rounds a corner and disappears behind a hedge row. The sound of horse hooves fades into the night, rising above sleepy London and echoing in Simon's memory. He wants nothing more than to see her again, immediately.

A soft smile touches his lips. He's been foolish, to be sure. The absinthe was a mistake of the highest order. But she seems to have forgiven him. Worse were the offenses which he could not attribute to supreme drunkenness – falling over himself to keep her attention at the ball, gossiping like an old hen, saying anything to keep her lovely gaze trained on him. He worries that she thinks him a foolish dandy, but even while still recovering from illness, she seems amiable enough. A bit reserved, but that is natural.

If ever there was a girl that could keep him guessing, keep him mystified, keep him intrigued for the rest of his life, he was certain it was Gemma. He remembers the brush of his lips against her bare wrist guiltily, but it was a pleasure all the same. How he longs that he might kiss her freely, without worry over her reputation. What a gift it would be to run his fingers down the length of her pale, pure flesh – to hold her, to know her…

He banishes such thoughts with an irritated thrust of his chin. He won't sully Gemma with base thoughts. It's the unimportant, boring girls who serve that purpose. Girls who will never interest him beyond their physical attributes. Girls like Felicity Worthington. He desired her once – when he mistook lust for love, and possession for companionship. But he has grown.

He turns from the window with a contented sigh. As he surveys the room, wondering how it appears through Gemma's eyes, his gaze settles on the brooch. The feeling is so foreign, that he's not sure what it is at first.

Heartbreak.

Simon goes to the mantel as if in a trance. His hand closes around brooch and its solidity is his undoing. For the briefest of moments, he had himself convinced that it was a hallucination. His fist closes tightly around the heirloom, unconcerned by the damage his grip is doing to the rows of pearls, nor for the pin that bites into the soft flesh of his palm. He swallows convulsively, his eyes gritted shut as if he could block out reality.

"Simon? What are you doing there?" His mother, Lady Denby, is at the door. Simon pulls his hand away from the mantel, as if burned, and thrusts the brooch deep into his jacket pocket.

"Nothing, mother."

If his mother notices the tremor in his tone, she does not comment. "It is rather late, Simon."

"Yes. I'll retire shortly."

"Good evening then, sweetheart."

"Good evening, mother."

- - -

Early the next morning, there is a package for Simon. There is no return address, but he suspects he knows the sender. He excuses himself to the parlor, afraid of what he will find inside. A letter condemning his caddish behavior at the ball? Blasting his endless gossip? Or perhaps a box filled with ash, to make clear her sentiments towards him.

With surprise, Simon watches the small black box tumble into his lap. He picks it up gingerly, feeling numb as he examines it. Even the letter he first penned is still inside. A sigh escapes him, filled with longing and disappointment, but also resignation. Gemma Doyle is not somebody to be tamed or possessed. He fears her affection is rather like that of a wounded falcon – careful, skittish, defensive. What would she be like, if he were able to collapse the walls she built?

With another sigh, he concedes to himself that he will never know. Ruefully, he slips the note back into the box and wraps it back in the paper it was sent in. With careful penmanship, he addresses the package for Spence.

_If you haven't noticed, I have this weird affection for Simon. I don't see Gemma being happy with him, but I don't see him as the bad guy, necessarily. Just not the guy for her. And all his foibles and flaws, I see in myself. That need for approval, talking about others so that you seem confident in comparison, doing stupid things to impress people. What other people seem to see as a really lame, pathetic person, I see as a flawed individual. This wasn't particularly groundbreaking, but I wanted to redeem Simon a little bit. Stop the Simon hating! Heehee. Originally I wasn't going to post it, because I wasn't completely happy with it, but I have this crazy obsession – I want AGaTB to get to 200 stories! (No, I don't have OCD, but your concerns are valid.) We're so close! Contribute to this campaign by posting your oneshots! Anyways, please review!_


End file.
